


A Good Time

by Inmyownidiom



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Indeterminate timeline, It's literally just porn, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pure Smut, SO MUCH BANTER, Sexual Tension, Smut, Threesome M/F/M, Torn Underwear, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, banter as dirty talk?, but every month is pride month amirite, dirty talk kind of, don't think too hard on the logistics and practicalities here, nemesis to lovers, resolving sexual tension, suspension of banging disbelief, was proud to have written gay sex for pride month but then forgot pride month was over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inmyownidiom/pseuds/Inmyownidiom
Summary: It's been a long day, and Illya Kuryakin hasn't enjoyed a moment of it.That is, until he, Gaby, and Solo discover new things about themselves and each other. Sexy, sexy things.Or, a fic that attempts to resolve the UNBELIEVABLE amount of sexual tension in the 2015 Man From Uncle film.





	A Good Time

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for nothing.  
Please, come and join me in this blessedly plot-free filth-fest.

Illya Kuryakin isn’t having a good time.

It’s not because of his aching hands (turns out, an Istanbul thug’s jaw is about as solid as any other jaw), and it’s not because of the mission they’ve just finished (Waverly himself called to compliment them on the ease with which they’d extracted the blueprints), and it’s not because his entire body aches as if he’s been thrown out of a burning boat again (which, that happens to be true, but it’s not the point), and it’s definitely not because of their current accommodations (a hotel just as plush as the one they stayed at in Rome, though this one tries too hard for atmosphere and has silken pillows, gauzy drapes, and oil lamps).

The reason Illya isn’t having a good time is because of the dancing.

He isn’t dancing, of course. He doesn’t dance. At least not in the way Gaby and Solo are currently doing. This is sexy dancing. Illya hates sexy dancing.

After delivering the files, the three of them holed up in the hotel room reserved for ‘Mr. and Mrs. Leifswagner’ and for the past hour, have been celebrating their success with alcohol that tastes far too fresh and a radio station that plays Turkish lounge music through a crackling speaker. 

While Gaby and Solo dance, Illya sits on a plush sofa with a glass of rum and silently fumes. Their hips are making slow circles as they twine about each other. Every time Gaby spins, her dress flares out at the waist like she’s clothed in an unfurling flower. Solo’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows and his vest is unbuttoned. One of the thin straps on Gaby’s dress wants to slip down her shoulder. The two dancers don’t touch, though. Illya’s been paying attention to that.

But then, when the music changes to a song that’s all sultry flutes and rhythmic drums, Solo touches. His hand lands on Gaby’s hip and slides up her waist to her ribs. Illya can hear the rasp of his palm against the fabric of her dress, see the way the fabric bunches and then falls free when the American lifts his hand from her. He’s nearly grazed her breast with the movement.

And Gaby says nothing. No scoff, no slap, no cold stare. She turns to face Illya and as she does so, she lifts her arms over her head and presses her ass into Solo. Solo looks at Illya and he’s  _ smirking. _

The rum glass is cold and smooth. How much damage would it do if he broke it in his fist? How much damage would it do to the room if he hurled it at the nearest wall? Pain lances through his knuckles—those damned jaws, those damned thugs—and it forces him to slacken his grip. He grits his teeth instead. 

Because Solo knows how Illya feels about her. He  _ must _ know. Every time he’s exited a room and left Illya and Gaby alone, he’s done that infuriating eyebrow wiggle right before he goes through the door. He does it when he’s re-entered the room and interrupted what would have been a perfect kiss. He does it when he catches Illya staring at her. Which, truth be told, is often, because Illya can’t  _ help _ but stare at her. 

It might be completely against the goals of their respective intelligence agencies, but ever since she tackled him and wrestled him with unexpected strength, then pinned him to the floor and leaned down lower, and lower, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss her. 

And other things. 

He thinks about the ‘other things’ quite a lot. The feel of her soft thigh under his fingertips. How she trembled at his touch, and how easy it was to imagine she was trembling for reasons unrelated to the tracking device he was activating. How close her lips came to his, how he could have slid his hand under her dress, how she would have dug her little fingers into his shoulders. How, when they hid together earlier today beneath a desk as armed soldiers sprinted past, she’d braced herself on his upper thigh, shockingly close to his groin.

Now, as he watches Solo lay one broad palm on Gaby’s waist, fury burns in Illya’s stomach. He slams his glass on the table and tries not to upend the whole surface. By the way Solo’s smirk has darkened, he definitely knows Illya’s feelings. It’s a foolish way to goad him into action; Illya has killed for less. 

But when Gaby spins around beneath Solo’s arm, the back of her dress is unzipped far enough to expose the cream-colored lace trim of her underwear. 

Illya stands so quickly he nearly upends the sofa. His jaw is twitching, his pulse hammering at his ears like gunfire, every muscle in his body telling him to charge over, throw Solo out of the way, and take his woman into his arms. Claim her. Destroy the competition. 

It’s a brutish way to think. Not at all the way Gaby would like—she is not the sort of woman who enjoys being possessed—yet the urge comes anyway. 

Solo grins. His eyebrows wiggle, just the once, just as he’s always done. It’s a wiggle that says, ‘Come on, already.’ 

And so Illya finds himself going over to the two of them, his bare feet thumping on the hotel carpet with all the elegance of a bull in a marketplace. 

Gaby halts mid-spin when she sees him, and she dances in place. One of her fingers trails down the buttons on his shirt. She’s pressing hard. He likes it. The anger flees in an instant.

“I thought you don’t dance,” she says, her pert lips curled into a flirty smile. She takes a step towards him. It’s a little stumbling, and he guesses Solo gave her a push. 

“I don’t,” Illya says. He sends Solo a quick glare—it’s returned by a winning smile—before his attention returns to Gaby. She’s removed her false lashes and most of her makeup, and her eyes are heavy-lidded and as dark as cocoa. Looking into them is like falling into a tunnel, like tumbling into eternity. She’s removed her heels, too, which means she has to crane her neck backwards to study him. He likes how it exposes her neck. He wonders how it tastes.

Solo’s still smiling, the bastard. 

“Then why did you come over?” Gaby asks. She whispers it, licks her lips afterwards. She’s staring at his mouth, and warmth pools low in his stomach.

Illya doesn’t have an answer for her question. The way she’s looking at him has made his mind as empty as a bottle of vodka in a drunkard’s cabinet. And she’d probably slap him again if he tells her the truth: his reasoning is all due to a bitter mix of lust, jealousy, and male pride. 

“I…” Illya says. He works his jaw. “I don’t like you dancing with him.” 

She narrows her eyes and snatches her finger from his chest, and he realizes it’s the wrong thing to say. He’s never been good with words. Or people. Or words said to people.

“Dammit, Peril,” he hears Napoleon mutter. 

“Ah,” Gaby says in a tone bordering on a snarl. “So that’s it, then. I can’t dance with anyone but you, and you don’t dance.” She scoffs. The amount of force she puts into that scoff makes her dress strap slide off her shoulder. The back is unbuttoned. It would be easy to— 

But wait. She hasn’t once scoffed at Solo tonight. This is all going downhill far too fast. “I—” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“If you have something to say to me, say it.” 

He has thousands of things to say to her; none of them make it over his tongue. It’s because Solo’s right there. That’s why. Must be. 

The American’s voice comes from behind Illya. “Just...do it, Peril.”

Then there’s a push at his back, strong enough to sent him into Gaby. He closes his hands on her upper arms for both her balance and his own. She parts her lips in surprise, and with Solo’s words swarming through his head, Illya bends down to kiss her. 

His first thought is that he’s been too rough. He’s kissing her too hard. He’s pressing her small body flush against his, digging his fingers into the bare skin exposed by her unzipped dress, and any moment she’s going to squeak out a protestation. But she’s grasping him in return. Her fingers snake through his hair and tug at it, and when his tongue grazes hers, she opens her mouth to encourage him in deeper. She moans when he does just that, and he can feel her tension and desperation all the way to his toes. 

Blood rushes to his cock, and Gaby moans again as the hardening length of it presses into her stomach. 

There’s a rustle to his side. Awareness crashes upon Illya. 

_ Solo. _

He pulls away from Gaby, despite her whine of displeasure. The taste of her is still in his mouth, mingling with the rum. He wants to shrink from the knowledge that he ravished her mouth in front of their watching partner. He hasn’t had enough rum to blame his actions on it. None of them have. 

Solo steps behind Gaby and rests his palms on her hips. She doesn’t shrink away, only looks up at Illya. Her breathing is unsteady, her face flushed, her eyes glassy. 

“You don’t have to stop.” Solo says it low and graveled, and Illya isn’t sure who he’s talking to, but it must be both of them, because Gaby reaches up and slides the dress straps over her arms. Her dress falls to the carpet in a pool of dark blue silk. 

Maybe he’s drowning again. Yes, that would make sense. He’s fallen into a harbor and is sinking down into the dark blue of her dress, because he can’t seem to find his breath. The sight of her makes him dizzy—small breasts barely hidden behind lace cups, the dark hair of her sex creating a shadow underneath her gauzy underwear, her strong legs, the muscles on her stomach. 

Solo returns his palms to her hips, his hands looking as pale as cream against her bronzed skin. 

“I want to,” Gaby says in a voice like a purr, “if you do.” Despite Solo’s touch, she hasn’t taken her eyes off of Illya, and this manages to be reassuring, somehow.

Maybe he wants to, if he can manage to avoid looking at Solo. If he can pretend the image of those lily-white hands on her body doesn’t still make him want to hurl the American through a window. 

“Come on, Peril,” Solo says. “You’ve always seemed like you’re in need of a good time.”

There’s a retort to that, though Illya doesn’t want to bother with it. Mostly because it’s true. ‘A good time’ always seemed like a phrase out of Illya’s reach. He doesn’t have the wherewithal for frivolity. There’s no need for play, with the world the way it is. Not with his job. Not with his duties.

Yet…

This gauzy room, with its Turkish beats thrumming over the furniture, its dim light, and the tension that seems to be twining about the three of them—this could be something different.  _ He _ could be someone different. 

He raises his fingers to Gaby’s sternum. Her skin is soft here, as soft as everywhere else he’s touched her. She’s so petite and he’s so large that when he spreads his fingers, he nearly covers her entire chest. Her nipples stiffen beneath his touch, hard nubs he can’t wait to worship. 

Even if Solo is watching. 

Fuck Solo. 

Illya frowns at his hands. The backs are a mess of barely-healed cuts and deep purple bruises. Even the act of straightening his fingers hurts to the bone. 

The band of her brassiere flexes and then slackens; Solo must have undone the clasp. When Illya takes his hand away—his injuries juxtaposed with Gaby’s lovely skin are harsh and unpleasant—the lace snags on his callused hands and the garment falls to the carpet. 

Her breasts overwhelm him. They’re pert and plump and just as bronzed as the rest of her, and as he stares at them, her nipples pebble even more under the intensity of his gaze. Her breast would probably fit perfectly within his mouth.

“I think she’d like you to do more than look, Peril.” Solo has the sort of smug grin Illya wouldn’t mind punching. 

“I know th—shut up, Cowboy,” Illya snaps before he drops to his knees and captures one of Gaby’s breasts in an openmouthed kiss. She lets out a short squeak of surprise that deepens into a low moan as he laves her nipple with his tongue. 

“That’s it,” Solo says. “Better.” 

Illya growls in irritation against Gaby’s skin. She smells like lilacs and gunpowder. Sweet and dangerous. He cages in her ribs with his hands, holding her close. The urge to  _ claim _ rises up again within him.  _ Make her your woman. Take her.  _ He holds her tighter, closer, and she gasps, presses herself into him, twists her fingers in his hair. 

He glances up. Solo is gently cupping her throat, kissing a trail from her ear to her collarbone. Gaby gives a satisfied sigh and closes her eyes. She keeps one hand on Illya, but the other drifts to the back of Solo’s head and grips him by that thick black hair. 

Whenever Illya has imagined being with her, it is just with her. The two of them would explore each other at leisure until the sweat and the tension and the pleasure overcame them both. But here is Solo, intruding on those fantasies. Now, Illya isn’t the only one making her lips part around a breathy moan. He’s not the only one making her shudder. 

Gaby yelps, and Illya realizes he’s nipped her breast harder than he intended.  _ Blyad’. _ He tongues the spot he’s bitten in silent apology. 

Gaby laughs, and it’s tight and breathless. She catches one of his hands in hers and drags it down to her underwear. The lace between her legs is damp. Nearly see-through. He runs his thumb along the fabric, as firmly as she’d stroked his chest through his shirt earlier, and she bucks her hips into his touch. Not because of what Solo is doing.  _ This _ is just for him. 

He nudges her underwear to the side. Beneath the ivory fabric, she’s drenched. Illya groans at the feel of her: warm and supple and slippery. He kisses her hip as his thumb massages her clitoris, and she keens when he pushes one thick finger into her. Her body is heaven around him. He is lost in the ecstasy of her tight cunt. God, she’s so wet he can hear it. Another finger, and she grips him harder, moans high and long as he begins to thrust into her. There’s a spot, he knows, on the front wall of the vagina that can be— 

But when he crooks his fingers within her, it’s as if his metacarpals have turned to knives. Agony explodes down his wrists to his elbows. 

Illya hisses in pain and pulls out of her.

“What’s wrong?” she says, worry quick to tighten her expression. “Illya, are you… Is it…” 

He flexes his fingers. The knives have gone, now it’s just an ache. A fierce ache. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “Just bruised.” He goes to clench his hands into fists and winces again. “I punched a lot of faces today. All had metal jawbones, I think.” He sends her a quick smile, meant to be reassuring, but undoubtedly comes across as contrite.

Solo slides his hand down Gaby’s stomach and nudges at the waistband of her underwear. “I’ll help you, Peril.” 

Illya brusquely pushes him away. “I don’t want your help.” 

“Maybe I do.” 

Gaby’s spoken. She’s looking at him with one eyebrow arched, her chin lifted in defiance. She needs something which he is unable to give, and her look is as much a challenge as it is a reminder that, in a way that’s becoming more and more confusing to Illya, they are all a part of this—whatever  _ this _ is.

“Fine,” he bites out. He meant it to be harsh, because he was speaking to Solo, but as Gaby gives him a displeased cast, he realizes she must have thought it meant for her.

_ Wait. No. I didn’t mean to— _

He can’t seem to speak the words, not even as Solo walks backwards to the bed and flops onto the mattress with Gaby on top of him. Not even as Solo runs his palms down her sides to her thighs and spreads her legs wide.

“Want to watch this time, Peril?” 

“Fuck you, Cowboy.” 

“In due time, in due time.” 

Illya curls his lip in a snarl. He steps forward anyway as Solo nudges the crotch of her underwear to the side. The angle was wrong for any observation, earlier. It should be joyous to see her now, her wet sex a mouth-watering, dusky pink, but it’s not Illya who is rubbing her clitoris, not Illya who takes her underwear in both hands and rips it in down the middle with a chorus of popping threads. 

Illya curses himself for not thinking to do that. He’s seen how she admires his strength, how she flutters when he picks her up without effort. 

Gaby gasps at the ruination of her undergarments. “Those were expensive,” she chides, though it’s easy to see her delight.

“They weren’t bought with your money,” Solo says, “so the price doesn’t matter.” He caresses her more, swirls his fingers over her arousal-soaked skin, dips a finger into her. 

Gaby moans as she lies on top of Solo, but as her eyes land on Illya, there’s a disappointed edge to her expression. He’s let her down. Not just with his injury—Gaby is as much an agent as he is and wouldn’t begrudge him for only that—but with how he’s spoken to her. He’s used gruff acts to replace a confession of adoration. 

“How’s she look?” Solo says, pulling Illya from his musings. “It’s a bit hard to see from up here.” His white teeth flash as he pumps two fingers into Gaby’s cunt and rubs her clitoris with his other hand. She writhes on top of him, presses the crown of her head into his chest when he adds a third finger. Her brow creases and she lets out a high wail. 

_ ‘Krasivaya,” _ Illya says.  _ Beautiful _ . And she is. A brilliant flush has settled on her chest and her neck. Her hair has tumbled from its coiffure and fans out over Solo. She’s wild and bewitching, and Illya is drawn to her like a beast to its mate until he stands at the edge of the bed. She’s flushed and swollen and stretched around Solo’s glistening fingers. 

Gaby’s eyes meet his. 

“Illya,” she breathes, and it emerges like a plea.

He wants to apologize for how he’s acted, but there is no world in which Napoleon Solo will ever hear him say the word ‘sorry.’ 

So instead he drops to his knees between both of their legs and kisses the inside of Gaby’s thigh. She grips his hair, pulling him higher until he knocks Solo’s fingers out of the way and laves her clitoris with his tongue, sucking at her cunt, the sounds coming loud and lewd. She cries out as he ravishes her with his mouth and nips at her drenched skin and fucks her with his tongue. He swallows down the heady taste of her. Another set of hands descends on his head—larger hands, stronger hands—and they drive his face harder onto her. His head bobs with the rhythmic push and release of pressure. 

There’s a hard ridge jutting into his chin, and it strikes Illya that his motions are imitating a blowjob. Inches away from a penis. A  _ hard _ penis. And for fuck’s sake, Solo is thrusting his hips up now, nudging Illya’s chin with the head of his cock. 

He wants to pull away. Although there’s no one in the room besides the three of them, mortification crawls up his spine at the fact that Solo is pretending to rut his mouth. Even more mortifying that it’s making Illya’s cock throb harder. 

He wants to pull away, take the time to pack those feelings into a strongbox in the back of his mind, but Gaby hasn’t come yet. He licks and sucks at her, faster and harder until she stiffens, screams out, and thrashes against him as a fresh surge of wetness coats his chin. With all of her thrashing, she’s perilously close to kneeing him in the face. Her orgasm is still going; she’s bucking into Solo with her head and her elbows, hard enough to cause injury. 

Good. 

Illya keeps licking. 

Then her hip bone connects with his jaw, and he grunts in pain. It’s amazing, really, the length of this climax, and he wonders how long he can make it last. He pushes hard on her spasming legs, pinning her thighs to Solo’s trouser-clad ones, and swipes his tongue rapidly over her clitoris. 

He can feel her muscles trembling with the intensity of it all, though strangely, her movements seem more controlled. When he looks up, he sees Solo has wrapped his arms around Gaby’s torso. She’s effectively immobilized by the two of them, unable to do much more than moan against the incessant assault of his mouth. It’s downright brutish. Wicked. He feels guilty for all of three seconds until, with a shriek loud enough to rattle the windows, she comes again, screaming his name into the room. His face is drenched with her, and still, he can’t find the will to stop, can’t pull away from her pussy, can’t bring himself to cease licking the cream from her sweet cunt. 

Because she screamed out  _ his _ name. 

Not ‘Napoleon Solo.’ 

Only when she gasps out, “St— Stop. I can’t— No mhh—” does Illya release her thighs and lean back on his heels, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. And his chin. His cheeks are wet, too, and he wipes them on his shirt cuff. 

“T-tahh…” Gaby pants for a second and then tries again. “Take off your clothes.” 

Illya isn’t sure who she’s talking to until her glassy eyes connect with his. A lock of her hair clings to her forehead. The room smells like sex and arousal and sweat and it makes his head spin. 

Gaby doesn’t appreciate his inaction. “Now,” she says. 

Illya stands and wipes his mouth. The loungers on the bed both look down at the erection that strains the front of his pants, as if sharing the same curiosity. Gaby purses her lips into a little gleeful ‘o.’ Solo whistles. 

“Would you want it like this?” Illya says to Gaby, intent on ignoring Solo’s wriggling eyebrows. “With him?” 

“Yes.” In her effort to sit up, Gaby’s hand slips on the silken fabric of Solo’s waistcoat and she nearly tumbles over. “I don’t care about him.” 

“Hey now,” Solo says. “Right here. Underneath you.” 

Gaby moves to pat his arm and instead thwacks on his cheek. “I don’t care if he’s here,” she amends. “I want you. I want…” Her eyes drift down to his tented slacks. “I want whatever enormous thing you’ve got hidden away in there.” 

Together, they watch him undress. Solo sits up behind Gaby. He’s whispering something into her ear. His arms wrap around her: thick forearms pressed close to her breasts. 

Illya pulls off his shirt with sudden force. Threads snap and buttons fly across the room. 

“All right, Peril, don’t seem  _ too _ eager.” 

He ignores the American. Gaby is rapt, as if she’s drinking in every inch of skin he exposes, and the feeling that he is desired is as intoxicating as any alcohol. More so, even. Her gaze rakes over his biceps, his abdominals, the coarse hairs on his chest and those trailing down from his navel to disappear beneath his trousers. Then goes the belt, and the trousers—Illya kicks them across the room, and when the belt buckle knocks into a lamp, something cracks. 

He can hear Gaby swallow as she takes in his muscled thighs and the underwear that makes a valiant—but fruitless—attempt at containing his erection. Those too slip to the carpet, and then he’s naked, and Gaby’s naked, and Solo’s completely clothed, and Illya’s about to fuck her on top of him. It seems ridiculous. If Illya thinks on it too much, he’s likely to scoop Gaby off the bed and carry her to another room, hallway nakedness be damned.

Yet it wouldn’t be entirely bad. Their combined weight would press Solo into the mattress; every thrust would stimulate him through his pants and he would be able to do nothing about it. Maybe his cocky smile would fade, then. Maybe his head would tip back against the covers, eyes scrunched in frustration, sharp jaw slack.

Gaby wriggles out of Solo’s arms and staggers to her feet. Her legs wobble as she makes her way across the carpet. Illya attempts to catch her before she can fall, but she drops to her knees and wraps her little hand around his cock. 

Illya grunts. His hips jerk forward and Gaby smiles up at him. 

“Gaby…” He traces his thumb along the shell of her ear. “You don’t have to—”

She chuffs. A stroke of her hand along his shaft sets stars exploding behind his eyelids. “You have an excellent mouth,” she says. “I want to repay you.” Illya’s heartbeat stutters when she parts her lips and sucks on the tip of his cock, swirling her tongue around the glans and flicking it along the underside.

This isn’t repayment. It’s bliss. It’s utter perfection. He’s done nothing in his life to deserve Gaby Teller taking his cock so deep she almost gags on it.

“Careful sweetheart.”

Illya’s eyes snap open, then narrow as Solo rises from the bed and begins to remove his waistcoat. 

“What?” Solo says, hands raised in submission. “Don’t want her getting hurt. Do you even have a permit for that thing?” 

Illya’s snappy retort catches in his throat and nearly strangles him when Gaby cups his balls and strokes the taut skin behind them. She sucks harder. His hips buck and she moans. 

He wants her. Not like this, with her on her knees and working her mouth over his heated skin. On the bed. He wants to feel her writhe against him, feel her cunt squeeze and slip around his cock. 

“Gaby—” he manages. “I want—” Good Lord, she’s done that thing with her hand again. He’s about to gently push her head away so he can form full sentences, but she beats him to it. 

She pulls off of him with a wet pop. Her lips are reddened and plump. Her mouth looks like it’s been taken hard; Illya forces himself to think of history and numbers so he doesn’t accidentally come on it. 

“Get on the bed,” she says, rising to her feet. “On your back.” 

She means to straddle him, then. Ride him. He wants that too, but with the predatory way Solo has been circling them, watching and unbuttoning and smirking, Illya instead wants to cover Gaby’s body with his, establish his claim on her in her in the most simple and primal way. He will probably feel embarrassed about this later. He’ll worry about it then.

“No,” he says to her. 

Gaby blinks, taken aback. “Then what—” 

Whatever she was going to say flies out out of her throat as a delighted shriek when he scoops her into his arms and tosses her onto the mattress. She’s laughing, high and breathless, scooting farther across the covers while he climbs up after her. Her laugh fractures when he kisses her neck, and again when her legs fall open and his hips settle against the wild heat of her core. 

“Illya.” 

That whisper will undo him. He presses his lips to hers to contain it, for if she says his name like that again—desperate and wanton and trembling—he’ll go through the window and float off with the breeze. 

He leans back far enough for her face to be in focus. He smells lilacs again, perhaps from her perfume. Perhaps from her hair. Perhaps the smell has just stuck in his memory like a burr. 

She reaches down to drag the head of his cock over her wet entrance, coating him with her. Illya gasps at the feel of her and his head droops so their foreheads touch. Their breath mingles, coming heavy and quick. 

There might be a line somewhere, like a strip of paint splattered on asphalt, that divides who they were before this and who they will be after. It divides the associates and the lovers, the agents sworn to their countries and the people succumbing to their deepest urges. It will be simple to cross it—just one foot lifted and then set down—yet impossible to go back. Less of a line, then, perhaps, and more like a cliff. Illya feels as if he is standing at that edge with his toes nudging the empty air.

“Come on, then,” Gaby whispers. She gives him a smile, and though it’s as brief and minute as a muzzle flash, it’s just as thrilling. 

He eases into her, and they step over the edge together. 

But  _ oh, _ she’s spectacular around him. Tighter than sin, and wetter than he could have imagined. She cries out and sinks her nails into his shoulders, clawing at him as he eases in deeper and deeper, until he can feel her shudder around the entire length of his cock and her cunt pulses with little tremors that rock him to his toes. 

“Are… Is this…” Illya chokes on the air in his lungs. She’s so small. He’s so...well... _ not  _ small. This is perfect and ecstatic, but if he’s hurting her, he couldn’t bear to—

“Yes,” Gaby breathes out. “Yes.” Her fingers dig into his buttocks, pulling his hips closer, and he’s sure he’ll have a series of little half-moon indentations from her nails. He doesn’t care, because this is the sort of encouragement he can understand. 

He starts slowly. She keens with each withdrawal and gasps when he slides back inside. He loves the way her mouth drifts open, how her eyes scrunch shut, how her teeth catch at her lower lip when she moans. Her hands clench once more on his hindquarters, and it’s like a spur that urges him faster. The radio sill plays that sultry lounge music. Drums and trumpets and flutes all mix with the soft, wet sounds of Gaby’s cunt. It drives him wild. He’s dizzy, euphoric, consumed by it all. 

As he bucks into her harder, the dig of her fingers becomes too much: where it had once been alluring, now it is just painful. He grabs her hands and pins them by her head, using his grip as leverage to start pistoning into her. She wraps her legs around his waist and squeezes. 

There’s a hand low on his back. A firm hand. A large hand. Not Gaby’s hand. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to realize that, since he has both of her wrists caged against the mattress.

Startled, Illya rolls the two of them over in one swift motion so she straddles him, like she’d initially wanted. It takes Gaby a moment to sit up—her arms are wobbly and she pushes on Illya’s chest only to collapse onto him a second later. He doesn’t mind, of course, not when her breasts are crushed to his skin and her breaths are hot and panting on his neck. 

When she manages to sit up at last, Illya peers around her hip to see Solo standing naked behind her, between Illya’s feet. His body is wide and as chistled as any Grecian statue. Hairier, however. Much hairier. It’s like a dark mat on his muscled chest. Everything about him seems to match: sharp, wide jaw; sharp, wide body. His dick is wide, too: thick and straight and veined. It’s a nice specimen. Shorter than Illya’s, though. It might be the venomous machismo speaking, but that piece of knowledge is rather pleasing.

A little thought tickles him then, that if he kicks out, he could strike the American in the balls. It would have been a perfect thought months ago, but now it feels sour, like wine that’s gone off. 

Gaby rises to her knees gingerly, then sinks back down. He is engulfed by her. Inflamed by her. 

Solo idly strokes himself, then sets one knee on the bed between Illya’s legs, his eyes on Gaby’s ass. 

It suddenly dawns on Illya that there are three of them here. One Gaby. Him and Solo. He’s not sure how it hasn’t crossed his mind that he might not be the only one to be inside her tonight. The thought pricks him, as sharp and cold as a dart. 

“Like hell,” he says.

Solo blinks. “What?” 

Gaby has begun to ride him. Her hips snap into his as her thighs tense and release. 

“You’ve been with too many women.” Illya is amazed he’s able to speak, what with the way she’s moving. “I don’t know what diseases you’ve caught.”

“I’m always safe,” Solo says with scoff. 

“Bullshit.”

“Not ‘boolshiet.’”

Illya growls at the gross misrepresentation of his accent.

Solo comes closer and climbs on the bed. “What do you think, Gaby?” he says, gesturing to his cock like a waiter presenting a dish at a restaurant. “Would you want this?”

She stills and twists around, then reaches out with one hand and closes it around Solo’s member. Strokes a few times, considering. 

“Yes,” she says, and Illya wants to snarl, even though she’s still straddling  _ him, _ still gripping  _ his _ body with hers. 

Solo comes closer until his chest is to Gaby’s back. She’s paused in her motions, holding herself on her knees, and Illya takes the opportunity to buck up into her hard enough to elicit a gasp. He does it again, and her lashes flutter. 

Solo touches her sides, her shoulders, her hips. He nuzzles her ear and whispers something that Illya can’t hear. Jealousy burns low in his stomach, but as he watches Solo’s hands roam over Gaby’s skin, he realizes that the American isn’t touching her breasts. As if that part of her is for Illya’s adoration only. It’s a silly thought, and he kicks it away. 

Gaby looks to be considering whatever Solo whispered. She purses her lips, then nods slowly. “I...all right,” she says. “Slow, though.” 

The jealousy in Illya’s stomach blooms, and it’s now tinged with curiosity. 

Solo sucks his index finger—once, twice, checks it, then sucks it again—and his hand disappears behind Gaby’s body. 

Illya’s worried. He can’t help it. He’s been in the KGB for too long and has seen too much and  _ what in the hell is Solo—  _

Gaby cries out and her back arches with such force that Illya nearly slips out of her. Her body stiffens and seizes around him, then relaxes, and her head lolls against Solo’s shoulder. 

Illya feels it, then. As he drives into Gaby, there’s a new sort of pressure along the underside of his cock: pleasant in sensation, though not in context. He’d never thought to use his hands...well,  _ there. _ It’s unfortunate that Solo is the one to do so. 

He maneuvers to a kneeling position as well, desperate to feel her closer. He doesn't want Solo to be the only one feeling the warmth of her body, the sweat of her skin against his chest. In this position, the two of them dwarf her, and Illya has to hold her up against his torso in order to remain inside her. It’s easy; she’s small, he’s strong. 

“Gaby, what would you like?” 

_ Jesus, _ Solo’s even the one to ask  _ that. _ Illya should be asking that. He almost succumbs to the infantile desire to repeat the same question, but louder. 

Gaby trembles. Her breath comes out as a whine. 

If Solo’s about to ask again, Illya doesn’t let him.

“What do you want,  _ myshka?” _ he rumbles against her temple, and she shivers.

Her arms come up around his neck and she sends a shy glance behind her. It’s jarring, to see her embarrassed. Exciting, too, for what she must be thinking.

“It’s…” She lets out a short laugh, more peep than anything. Color stains her neck. “The both of you are here,” she says, and her fingers tighten around Illya’s neck. “It’d be a pity to only have one, no?” 

Her expression is open and vulnerable and it makes Illya want to give her the world, even though she’s asked for far less. 

Gaby chokes out a cry when Solo withdraws his finger. Her expression grows worried. “Wait,” she says.

Illya freezes, as does Solo. For a moment, Illya entertains the thought that she might be rescinding her wish to take the two of them together, and it’s strange, but he isn’t as relieved as he thought he’d be. 

Gaby lifts her chin at Solo. “Not in my ass. I think it would be...uncomfortable.” 

Hold on. She can’t be suggesting— 

Solo looks at her askance. “You’re worried about one cock in your ass, but think two in your pussy would be fine?” 

_ Jesus, _ hearing it all out loud nearly undoes him. Images race through Illya’s mind faster than he can put context to them. 

But Gaby nods, and Solo aimes a raised brow at Illya.

“What do you say, Peril?” His smile is like that of a fox: greedy and cunning. 

There’s another line here. Another cliff. But Illya’s already fallen once. The second time will be easier. Isn’t that what he was always told in training? 

“Fine.” It comes out short and gruff. Maybe too gruff. He runs his palms along Gaby’s back as if to assure her his peevishness is not directed at her. 

Solo pushes his cock between Gaby’s legs. She’s so wet that he slips over her entrance and his thick head presses into Illya’s balls. 

“Careful, Cowboy,” Illya growls. 

Then Solo enters her too. He starts with his fingers—Illya is relieved to note he’s using a different hand than the one he’d put in her rear earlier. One finger slides along Illya’s shaft as it spears her, and Illya struggles with sudden shock, because Solo is  _ touching his cock, _ even though he’s mainly touching Gaby and any stroking must be purely accidental. Surely. For a second, Illya wonders how it would feel to have that hand wrap fully around his member and work it. 

There isn’t much time to dwell on either the thought or the churn of emotions it instills—lust, guilt, self-deprecation—before the head of Solo’s cock is squeezing into Gaby. 

Held between them, she’s a whimpering, dripping mess. The angle isn’t quite right for Solo to fully enter her, and he and Illya move together slowly, shallowly, their shafts crushed together within the tight grip of her body. Solo squeezes inside another inch and Gaby seizes, letting out a strangled wail as her nails sink into Illya’s skin. 

It is the most obscene thing Illya has ever done. He should be feeling horrified. Outraged. 

But he only wants more. His skin is so hot, he wonders how he’s not burning the other two. Pleasure is a scalding wave that breaks over his body, battering at him until he can no longer think on ‘should’s and ‘must’s.

Yet Gaby is short. He and Solo are not. She reaches up and grabs them both by their napes, forcing them to look at one another. There’s hardly any blue left in Solo’s eyes now, his pupils are so blown. Dark stubble shades his jaw, and it makes his chin seem that much wider. His lips are parted. His tongue flicks out to wet them, and with a start, Illya realizes he’s been staring at Solo’s mouth. He looks up quickly only to see that Solo is staring at his. 

Gaby comes with a warbling scream. She has one arm around Illya’s shoulders, having reached down with the other at some point to touch herself. How had he not noticed? Not that it matters. She’s seizing around his cock and Solo’s, her limbs jerking wildly.

Illya can smell her—lilacs and gunpowder and damp skin and pussy—and he can smell Solo’s aftershave; their scents are heady, thick, and wonderful. It’s a concoction to get drunk on, a maze to lose oneself inside. 

There’s a hand on his hip. Solo’s. Thick fingers slide up his side, feather along his ribcage. Illya doesn’t flinch away this time. The rasp of calluses on his skin is not at all like Gaby’s dainty explorations. He thinks on this, on the strangeness of it and the  _ niceness _ of it until he finds he and Solo have come so close they’re sharing breath over Gaby’s head. He can see the creases at the corner of Napoleon’s mouth, the lines at the corners of his eyes. Solo’s lips are parted. 

Although he expects the kiss, it still startles him. It’s awkward and stiff. Illya has never kissed a man before. Solo’s mouth isn’t as soft as Gaby’s, and it is a jarring thing to feel stubble against his chin and upper lip. He wonders if Napoleon thinks the same. Maybe this isn’t as strange for Solo. Maybe he’s done all of this before—after all, Solo is the first to use his tongue, the first to grip Illya’s hair and forcibly angle his head to one side. It’s rough, and dominating, and Illya finds that it’s...good. It’s very good. 

A pained yip from Gaby makes Illya freeze and tear away from Solo. He can’t bear to see whatever smug expression undoubtedly lingers on the other man’s face, and so he looks down at Gaby. Her hair clings to her forehead and sweat beads between her collarbones. She winces and taps his shoulder, like a surrendering wrestler. 

“I’m done,” she says quickly. “That’s...that’s enough for me. I’m done.” 

“What, already?” Solo gives a good-natured laugh, but pulls out of her.

Illya still can’t look at him. Not after kissing him. Not after feeling his cock slide against his own. Not after knowing how he tastes.

Gaby wriggles off Illya’s cock and flops to her side on the mattress, panting and giggling breathlessly.

“I fear you were too much for her, Peril.” 

That forces Illya to look at him. 

“What?” he snaps. He hates it when Solo grins like this. Those creases form in his cheeks, and his eyes crinkle.

“You almost split the poor girl in half,” Solo says.

Irritation flashes through Illya like a firecracker. It doesn’t matter that they’re on their knees with their sweaty chests heaving and their cocks out, nearly touching, both shining and covered in Gaby’s come. His index finger twitches and taps out the tic against his thigh. 

“I was?” he says. “ _ I  _ was? I was the perfect amount. You were the problem.” 

“Boys.” Gaby groans it into the mattress, too spent to even bother lifting her head to scold them.

Solo edges closer to Illya. “I was not the problem. The problem was that oversized Russian hammer between your legs.” 

Illya’s clenching his jaw so tightly a muscle burns in his cheek. “High words from someone who wouldn't even be able to take it.” The moment he says it, he isn’t sure why  _ that,  _ of all comebacks, was the one he landed on. 

“Take your cock?” Solo looks down and seems to consider Illya’s penis, ruddy and drenched as it is. “Oh, I think I could. Better than you'd be able to give it.” 

_ “Boys.”  _

Illya snarls and shoves Solo back into the bed. It occurs to him, as he's lining his cockhead up with Solo’s asshole, and Solo’s expression floods with excitement, that all of the caustic banter might have been an attempt at goading him into doing exactly this. 

Gaby’s arousal eases his entry. It’s base and it must be wrong, but it feels so,  _ so _ good. He pushes past the tight ring of muscle and Solo tips his head back, closes his eyes, and lets out a low, guttural moan. 

Illya could say he’s never thought of this before. He could say that filling Solo’s body with his cock brings him no pleasure, that feeling Solo’s hands tighten on his forearms gives him no satisfaction. He could say that having such a strong and cunning man reduced to a trembling mess just by the heavy press of his body does not affect him in the least.

But Illya is terrible at lying to himself. 

He manages to wrangle some words together and says, “I’d trust you to tell me if it’s too much.”

“Actually,” Solo gasps, “your unholy megalithic monument doesn't feel as big as I thought it would.”

_ What? _

Illya thrusts once, hard, and Solo’s words turn strangled.

“Yeah.” Solo gulps raggedly as his eyelids flutter. “You take one look at it and have to wonder how many churches were demolished just to provide the raw material—_unhh_”—Solo groans with another sharp thrust—“but I have to tell you, honestly, I’m a little underwhelmed.” 

He doesn’t appear to be underwhelmed. There’s a sheen on Solo’s forehead and beneath the hair on his chest, and the cords in his neck tense. His cock feels as hard as iron as it juts up against Illya’s stomach. 

“You’re bullshitting me,” Illya says through the haze of pleasure settling on his skin. 

“No ‘boolshiet.’ Or ‘boolshietting.’ None of that. I haven’t been fucked this gently since Vinciguerra—” 

“Gaby,” Illya snarls over Solo’s gasping drivel. “Come here.” 

“—tickled my ass with a feather duster,” Solo continues. “Hell, Peril, I expected more, what with your massive—” 

Gaby appears in Illya’s vision. She’s looking sweaty and thoroughly debauched and her face twists with suppressed laughter. 

“—anger issue. That usually _ —aannhhfuuck— _ bodes well for fucking, but I suppose every stereotype—”  _ _

“Shut him up,” Illya snaps. 

“—has an exception. To think that the KGB’s finest agent can’t even—”

She chokes out a snort. “With what?” 

“—muster the— _ hnnng— _ fortitude to give his country’s rival a solid—” 

“With your cunt.” 

Gaby isn’t the sort to obey right away, but with this, she’s made an exception. She swings one leg over Solo’s head to settle on his face, and the rest of his tirade turns muffled, then it stops completely.

Illya shifts his weight to one palm and touches Gaby with the other: stroking her thigh, cupping her breast, drifting his fingers through the damp hair by her ear. The muscles of her stomach flex as she grinds her hips against Solo’s mouth. 

“This isn’t how I’d expected it to be,” he says, giving her a short, huffed laugh and a wry smile. 

She seems to think on that. “No,” she says. “I’d—” 

Solo manages to locate what he’s been seeking and Gaby tenses and bites her lip as her back bows. When her eyes open once more and connect with Illya’s, her breath trembles. 

“I’d thought you’d give me more of your words first,” she says with a puckish grin. 

“You wanted me to...converse with you?” Illya is terrible at talking. He’s terrible at conversation, and banter, and flirting. He’s much less terrible at  _ this, _ no matter what Solo has to say about it. 

Gaby leans close. She’s gripping his shoulder, digging her fingers into his pectoral. His skin is slick with sweat and she holds tight to him. 

“I liked what you said. Before.” She leans closer and nips at his earlobe. 

A bolt of pleasure buries itself deep in Illya’s stomach. He feels a drop of sweat trickle from his forehead. Gaby catches it with her tongue, and another bolt of pleasure blows through him. 

_ “With your cunt,” _ she says, quoting his earlier instruction back to him. 

When he’d said that, it hadn’t been preempted by any sort of thought. In fact, if he’d hesitated at all, he probably wouldn’t have said anything, because he would have been too worried with how she’d react to such a rude word. 

“You...you liked it?” He’s finding that it’s harder to think. Solo is clenching around him, Gaby is feathering her fingers though his chest hair while she pulls on Solo’s cock in rapid jerks. 

She gasps as a tremor works its way through her. “Maybe you can talk like that more. Next time.” 

Those two words ignite a fire at the base of Illya’s spine. 

_ Next time. _

His last coherent thought as he cuffs Gaby’s nape and pulls her into a sloppy kiss is he’ll need to have more than a single sentence. He’ll have to prepare in advance. 

He isn't sure who comes first—Gaby is trembling and keening against his mouth; Solo’s shouts are muffled by her cunt as his body clenches around Illya’s cock. It’s all too much. With a harsh cry, he climaxes into Napoleon's ass. 

There’s a lull in the radio station after a long flute note fades into silence. Perhaps the signal has been interrupted, or perhaps the next song is difficult for someone to choose. For once, Illya’s mind is quiet as well. Satisfaction is a warm simmer within his chest. 

Then an announcer speaks loud and fast in Turkish over the radio. Illya can pick out just a few words. There’s a sale at a shop down south. A parade on Monday.

The advertisement’s sudden intrusion shatters whatever serenity had been building in the room, and Solo grips Gaby’s hips and tosses her to the side. His sharp jaw is covered in her, and as Illya eases out of him, Solo uses a corner of the sheet to wipe her arousal from his face and his own cum from his stomach. Illya is about to object at the use of the fine fabric, but realizes that one little corner is hardly the worst of their indiscretions. 

The sheets are tossed about, the pillows thrown across the room. There’s a large damp spot in the center of the covers. Droplets of pale cum slowly soak into the linens. 

Gaby is once again sprawled on her side. Solo flings his arms and legs wide as if he’s a starfish. 

Yet Illya remains on his knees, hovering in uncertainty once more. His once-quiet mind erupts into chaos. So many lines were crossed today. So many cliffs leapt over. Where do they go from here? How do they approach tomorrow, and the day after that? 

Gaby shifts to lie parallel to Solo, then reaches up and pulls Illya down so he crashes to the mattress beside her. She’s between the two of them. Again.

But she drapes an arm and a leg over Illya, nuzzles into his side, lets out a contented sigh that ruffles his chest hair.

“You’re welcome.”

Illya lifts his head to frown at Solo. “...Excuse me?”

“You’re welcome.” Solo folds one arm behind his neck. 

Illya glowers at the ceiling and tries to forget that he fucked this man not five minutes ago. “For what?” 

“For this.” Solo gestures between Illya and Gaby. “If not for my intervention, I’d have to deal with the two of you mooning over each other for months. Years, maybe.” He props himself up on an arm. “You’d both be impossible to work with.” 

There is no earthly condition in which he will ever thank Napoleon Solo for a sexual situation. 

Instead, Illya grunts and brings his arm around Gaby’s back. She fits well alongside him. He wonders how it would feel to fall asleep beside her and wake up with her limbs tangled around his. 

Solo chuffs. “What, no brutish or witty riposte?” He settles back onto the bed. “I think you’re growing, Peril.” Fabric rustles as he shifts to make himself more comfortable. “Emotionally, that is. The world couldn’t manage any other way. It’d break beneath your mass.” 

Even though Solo can’t see his face, Illya rolls his eyes. With Gaby curled at his side, Solo’s barbs don’t rankle as much. It’s strange, but he doesn’t feel quite the same contempt for the American. True, the man returned his father’s watch to him, and saved his life more than once, yet there had always been that burn of irritation buried within Illyas gut. 

It’s like that burn has gone from a roaring fire to a flickering candle. At some point, it will probably ignite again—Lord knows Solo is capable of instilling annoyance in literally anyone—but Illya wonders for a brief, ludicrous moment if more animosity could be resolved through fucking. 

The radio blares, and Illya is able to translate the next words:

_ The sun sets and you will emerge into your evening, leaving us behind. We hope you’ve had a good time. _

Yes, Illya thinks with a little surprise. He has.


End file.
